Chapter Seven

Hermione was absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent bone tired by the time Kingsley escorted her back to Shafiq House. She wondered how she was managing to stay awake, let alone walk on her own power as they stepped across the wide porch toward the doors. It truly felt as if this had been the longest day she could remember having lived, despite her awareness that she'd gone much longer without sleep, and been through days with much more activity and certainly more danger—hello Second Wizarding War—but perhaps this was different because she'd woken up hung over, had expended the energy to shrink her trunk and all the items therein, was lugging a sleeping Crookshanks in his long-favored rickety cage, and had become acutely aware of her own inner emotional upheaval regarding her changing feelings toward a certain werewolf.

After all, what were emotionally trying days if not exhausting?

Two of the aurors greeted them just inside the foyer as they entered the house. Though they looked untroubled, indeed even relaxed—she imagined finding out the savage werewolf had no designs on escaping, nor even attempting any acts of supposed savagery, had taken some of the edge off for them—though they still, understandably, kept their wands drawn. In spite of their calm appearance, the Minister was no-nonsense as he barked the question, "Where are the prisoner and the other two of your company?"

"Well, sir, after getting the full run of his allotted space in the forested area of the grounds, the prisoner was, um, well—"

"You can say it, I was downright grubby."

They all turned to see Fenrir Greyback stalking down the staircase, trailed by the other two aurors. The werewolf was scrubbing at his hair with a drab grey hand towel and he was clad in a fresh pair of trousers. Hermione didn't have time to puzzle about his apparent favoring of a piece of Muggle attire over wizarding robes, she was already so very busy trying not to notice that it seemed those trousers were all he was clad in.

She was painfully aware of the dropping of her jaw, which she very luckily managed to close barely half a heartbeat before Fenrir moved the towel back from his eyes enough to actually see her.

"Good God, man," Kingsley said, exasperated. "Can you ever fully dress yourself?"

Fenrir let the towel—which appeared so very tiny against any part of his person—fall around his neck. With a sigh, he fixed his gaze on the Minister's as he reached the landing. "I'm supposed to be home here, righ'? Might as well be comfortable, then, yeah?"

Eyes narrowing, Kingsley turned his head to look at Hermione. Hermione was distinctly not looking anywhere near Fenrir Greyback just now whilst she scratched at the back of her neck in something of an awkward gesture. Her attention shifted under his scrutiny, so that her bleary, sleep-desperate eyes were peering into the parlor, at a particularly cushy looking old sofa.

Kingsley was going to stay out of their . . . interpersonal dynamic, whatever that was. If she was safe, and Fenrir was redeemable, then nothing else really entered into the situation, did it?

"Oh, there is one further stipulation I forgot to mention. One auror will remain stationed at the front gates. Rotating shifts, covering the full twenty-four hours, should you have need of . . . assistance."

Greyback tsk'ed, forcing himself to remain jovial even as he found the Minister's claim of 'forgetting' said stipulation highly questionable. "And here I thought you trusted me."

The Minister and aurors did not look the slightest bit amused at the werewolf's quip. "It's her I trust. Of course, it's her sanity I'm questioning, but that's another matter. And as it were, this is an experiment, still. I cannot simply leave her here with you without some sort of ready assistance, and you've your own reputation to thank for that provision, Greyback."

Everyone noticed then that Hermione was unusually quiet, given the—mostly facetious—implication that she might just be going mad.

Each frowning in different levels of severity, they all looked about. The witch was nowhere to be seen, but her finally waking familiar in his old and comfy-to-him cage was still on the floor where she'd stood mere moments ago.

Arching a brow, Fenrir met the groggy Kneazle-cat's gaze. His nostrils flaring, Fenrir let his curiosity claim his focus. The orange beast blinked drowsily at him, and then turned his head, his nose pointing deeper into the expansive house.

He approached the cage, holding the cat's eyes with his own once more. Bending, he reached for the door. "I'm going to let you out, don't even think about scratching me."

Crookshanks breathed out sharply through his nostrils and looked away from the werewolf with a defiant lift of his chin. If Kingsley didn't know any better, he'd swear the feline had just said 'ugh, fine,' much in the same manner his mistress would.

Fenrir opened the cage and stepped back, offering the cat a wide berth. He could feel Kingsley's unspoken question. "I don't mess with Kneazles," the prisoner explained simply as he gave a shrug.

Crookshanks pulled his long, fluffy body though the cage door and gave a languid stretch. As if making a show of it, he took his time, rolling his back, reaching out his paws . . . and then turned his head to grant the werewolf a haughty glance over his shoulder.

Rolling his eyes, Fenrir made an 'after you' gesture and off the cat went. The prisoner, Minister, and all four aurors followed.

They found the witch sprawled, rather ungracefully, across a sofa in the parlor. Her wild hair spilled over the cushion, one arm thrown back across her face and she was—

"Aww, look a' that," Fenrir said in a cheerful whisper, "she snores."

Crookshanks leapt onto the sofa, curling into a ball beside his mistress' slumbering form. He looked around at the clustered wizards and breathed out a huffing sound.

"C'mon." Kingsley thought perhaps the werewolf wasn't wrong to not want to cross a Kneazle and nodded to the aurors, who in turn ushered the werewolf with them. "Let's leave her be."

Fenrir watched the auror at the front gate through the foyer window. And the auror watched him right back. Oh, what fun. Well, it was a hell of a lot bloody closer to freedom than he'd had in a long while, so he supposed he didn't have much to complain about.

Turning away, he started through the house. He couldn't pretend it was an accident when he found his way back to the parlor entrance.

There she still was, snoring away on the sofa. His tiny, mad-haired savior. He frowned as he crossed the floor. She really was tiny, he considered, gazing down at her. Well, really, she was average sized, he supposed, it was only in comparison to him that she seemed so very small—and using that as a measure, who wasn't?

"All right, enough of this nonsense," he said, his voice nothing more than a low rumble in the quiet of the house. As he reached toward her, the cat's head snapped him, his eyes locking on Fenrir's.

The werewolf stilled, frowning at the puffy little beast. "I'm only going to take her up to her room. Tha's it, I promise. I do anything more, you can eat my eyeballs. I won't even fight you."

Crookshanks' eyes narrowed in an appraising look. Seeming to decide what he thought of this offer, the cat climbed onto his mistress' stomach and went back to sleep.

Fenrir snorted a chuckle as he went ahead and gently scooped the witch up from the cushions. "Ginger freeloader, you are."

"Meowrff."

"Stow the attitude, Tuffy. You are getting a free ride, aren't you?"

Crookshanks made no more fuss, apparently contenting himself with the thought of feasting on werewolf eyeballs, while Fenrir carried them up the staircase.

Hermione stirred, aware of light hitting the backs of her eyelids. Wincing, she forced her eyes open as she sat up, stretching.

Looking about, she found herself on the bed in the room she'd claimed during yesterday evening's tour of the house and grounds. She let her arms fall limply to her sides as she blinked around in puzzlement. She didn't remember coming up here.

"Meowff."

Following the familiar cry with her gaze, she met Crooskhank's sleepy eyes from where he'd curled up beside her pillow. "Good morning to you, too. You have any idea what happened?"

With a disgruntled sound, the cat unfurled himself and leapt down from the bed. He missed the werewolf sleeping on the floor by a hair's breadth.

Leaning over the side of the bed to peer down at him, Hermione couldn't help herself from loosing a confused shout. "Fenrir!"

"Hmm?!" In a blink, he was on his feet and darting his attention about the room. "What?! I didn't do it!"

She laughed, waving dismissively. "What the bloody hell were you doing sleeping on the floor?"

"Um, well, uh, you fell asleep downstairs, and with the kind leave of your familiar, I brought you up here. Not proper to spend the first night in a place you're meant to think of as home for a while on a ruddy sofa."

Sighing, she nodded. "It was actually quite comfortable. But, that still doesn't answer why you were on the floor."

"Oh." He met her gaze, smiling sheepishly. "I didn't realize how tired I was after putting you to bed, and just sort of fell out where I was."

Her expression one of sympathy, the witch shook her head. "Oh, you don't have to sleep on the floor the next time something like this happens."

Surprise registered on the werewolf's face. "I . . . I don't?"

Smiling brightly, she answered, "Of course not. There's a perfectly fine chaise right over there in the corner."

Fenrir's eyes narrowed, that petulance from the infirmary yesterday afternoon returning. "You're mean."

"C'mon," she said, kicking back her covers and climbing out of bed. "There's coffee to prepare with my name written all over it."

His brow furrowed as he followed her from the room, aware of a Kneazle-cat disappointed by a lost opportunity to munch on his eyeballs trotting after him. "I don't think I've ever had coffee."

Hermione sighed, shaking her head once more. "You poor, deprived creature! We'll fix that."

As they descended the staircase to begin their first breakfast as house mates, she noted that Fenrir still hadn't bothered with a shirt. Oh, well. If running about naked from the waist up was how he was comfortable, she supposed she'd simply have to learn to live with it. Dreadful burden, that.